Dear faithful brother!

“...for thou shalt see the land before thee;

but thou shalt not enter into it.

...And they ate of the growth of the soil.”

Such is the account of the Old Testament Hebrews when after decades of wandering they came in the promised land. And I know no other motto that can suitably begin these lines. “You will see the land, but you shall not enter in there.” Yes, I have seen the land, Ola, my brother, but I did not enter in there. Decades back I saw the promised land in all its glory, and I nourished a kind of hope to enter in there, but the years slipped away, I soon realized clearly that I would not enter in there. “I have chosen a man by my mind”, it goes on in that way. Regarded from a superficial point of view, this seems to be a hard and painful judgement; but I am convinced that if we could look into the man of God, Moses’s heart, we would see that there existed not a hint of bitterness, but that he was instead full of holy law and thanks. If you, my brother, could see into my heart’s feelings after the reception and entire proclamation with the received New Years’ gift from your hand, I would really wonder about within the two of us, where the happiness stood highest in flower, either in you it would have produced the fruit or in me it met.

Then you should get a heartfelt thanks then, brother, for the sent New Years’ gift. It has never occurred to me to receive any gift as an adult, which I have a great pleasure in. The reasons are many- but one way or another, these reasons or the legitimate primary reason I develop for you- my bodily pains are too large- you get in force the wonderful and secretive bonds of blood and flesh that bind us together we find ourselves in; I sit here and write or draw rightly crooked, but I am so broken down by sickness that I once in a while groan a little, or take to whimpering! Is it not any more predominant that I get to eat of the promised land’s yield? You have not so soon managed to harvest the first cluster before you right away initiate me first and foremost in the delight of this glorious fruit. Yes, now on the other page my little person forms in the third the book’s central characters. 

About 2 weeks after receiving your book a letter arrived from you. Sincere thanks for this! Do you believe that one and a half pages is an allowable length? Thank you for the work, I will see myself if I can repay you with 3 half-pages. However, I had seen instead that you could see your “Fans” and climbed off the back of your pegasus so you could send me the discussed newspaper clip of the Norwegian-American Press that you forgot to include.

Then you urge me to simply play the literary critic? You are some type of crazy! You should not very well be in the same condition as the other, less-worthy large autumn-summer fishing when we for 2 and ½ weeks brought in the beautiful result of around 1100 cod and large pollock just on the fishing line? Do you remember the other wonderful August morning when I had to wake you up 3 times during the trip from the catch at Søndre Næpsund until we arrived at Hestøgodden? 

To exchange figurative language with real- I think you talk in a muddled way. When did you hear that an author was submitting his works for the judgement of the poverty of society’s pariahs?

You begin, in truth, at an early stage, to indulge yourself in extravagances. Or now can it be time to say enough! Now I slam my fist on the table with the strength these dried-out bones have left- and it saw its spared! Even if I have become one of these unhappy people who society despises- I own a spiritual individuality that is maybe as sterling as yours in Feas, sliding on the asphalt of the Boulevard, in this one or the other biggest cities in the world, writing long columns about this or the other poetry publication. If I had the necessary theoretical education regarding the finesse of language as these people- I see them smear my little name under their noses. Unfortunately the dignified Mr. Beiermann- honorable in memory- the only professor at the university I have ever frequented, forgot to develop me in that direction- and my business between cormorant and Arctic skua, tenna and common eider, herring, pollock, halibut and cod, or whatever these creations are called now, laughing that an invisible spirit is by my side. Now Andreas is coming in to see the book. “Now ‘Amerika-Breve’,” he says. “It is really the Paal Mørck that has sent in a contribution in the Christmas brochure I got from Ole.” “Maybe the book is not so bad?” means Andreas. “Yes, just take it and read through it,” I say; “for the moment I have so much reading to go through and turn in before a definite date that I will hide Ole’s gift for later; one thing is sure: the book is entirely worthy of reading, that you can count on, I wonder so much who this Mørck be?” “It must be Ole himself, because in his last letter to Father he talks about that he is proposing to publish a book,” says Andreas. Now the shield falls from my eyes and I see it all as clear as day. Then the doubt comes with its arguments: strange, that Ole did not give a hint in the slightest about it in the last as well as the first of the letters I received from him in the present year; odd that he uses a pseudonym? Etc. Then the explanations will indeed be with father- could I just get to see the other letter; rush to the door to see the letter, yes, it is indeed black and white from your own hand. Was it not a veritable adult nose you attributed to me? True to say, I believe I would not have gone with it, if there had not been detailed information from your hand. That’s how it can go when one leaves one wrong notion to get down and fasten itself; Ole appears under an assumed name- according to him he was going to try the poet way down there in a foreign part of the world; “Bah! Yes, just tell me then?” Because I would with such absolute fervor adopt such a possibility, like the absolute impossibility, then I could, despite the known spirit, in silence whisper: blood of your blood and spirit of your spirit, out from the majority of lines; for the eyes. And that I am so sensitive on this grasp you cannot wonder about for a while, you know that my spiritual awakening in the first place is due to the fact that with the pen in hand, changing images have revealed the good of the spirit in this earthly existence. And as I called attention to at the beginning of these lines: ever since my youth I have felt a strong nag to the poet-calling, it beckoned me from far away like the promised land. Had I had means and encouragement in the right moment, it is possible I could have used it for something in that direction. And because I deep inside me have felt an unending nagging towards this calling, yes, even after time’s relentless natural law had given the unavoidable children for the realization of such a thought, I still notice now and again that there are glimpses backwards and seethe. And because this is the case, you will understand much easier that there, at the bottom of my soul, there has been a multitude of piety left in the face of this lifework and that I have such an easy time getting into carnage with any cheaters and ameateur work in the subject.

New Year’s Eve in the year 1912 I was hanging around in the other sitting room to hear if Brother Peder had come from Thorsvik with the mail, and besides the fact, to turn off a little conversation that was significantly about the war. After a little lapsed time Per came. He throws a cardboard case down on Andreas’ bed with these words: “There is Arne Eikanyt!” Everyone together: “Is it from Ole?” Looks at the signature, “yes, it sure is.” Altogether again: “Move out of the way! Jump up, let’s hear and see what he has sent and how he is doing, there are very well letters, or at least some lines from him!” “I doubt greatly,” I say “that Ole would bother to send something half-done.” And that proves to be true. The case contains a Christmas pamphlet like the Norwegian diversity that our own hand overflows with each year. “Here must not be much to amuse oneself with, half of it is in English” says Andreas, and it proves to be true. “And not a line from Ole!” says Mother again. “No there is not!” “It was, in truth, too little to pay shipping on” and this expression we all joined in. For my own concern and good I could not even listen to the pamphlet. Now the old years go to their fathers, the new ones take its place. So before it lasted thirteen nights; around six o’clock in the evening the same night, I have placed myself in the oven-corner with the slanted roof pipe, as usual, to let the thoughts flutter. It stands in the door, Andreas sticks his head in, delivers a package marked with a seal and says: “Book for you from America, can I loan it when you get done with it?” I look at the address, the writing is indeed yours. I take to the sheath after the knife, pop up the bands, and remove the packaging. You will see it is quite strange what he sent me, knowing my taste and my pickiness in that direction- maybe a product of Yankies out of all the Yankies- the incomparable Twain, I think; while the heart in happy anticipation beats in a general march. Oh, now instead it says “Paal Mørck, Amerika-Breve.” What in hell’s skin and bones is this Norwegian-American mishmash he bares his neck to send me, I think, and on top of that not accompanied by any orienting lines alongside the following letter. Paal Mørck! Yes, who knows both that Paal Mørck and that Petter Lys amongst all these moles eating pork chops and slurping cream, hunting after dollars that form this so-called Norwegian-American society down there; those who have “forgotten, in faithless mind, their homeland for another.” And the book on top of that in book form! That form there there is only topped by its more hideous twin brother: diary sketches. Certainly, there was a big lack in that I did not throw the whole thing against the wall. You know well from experience that for the natural relationships in Helgeland, as a rule, the sharper the urge is at its eruption, the sooner it lays off, so also this time. The horizon clears and I walk by the headland below over under! The first thing my gaze falls on are the following sentences: “The North Star was not to be mistaken; I knew this from the crazy night when we sailed from Heimvær to Værøy without Rompas.” (Ch. 2, Pag. 24) You will truly see, I think, that the author has heard talk about gunpowder- I should think he really has joined in guessing about this! Now the ring was bent, and I began to read and ponder a little here and a little there. Oh yes, I do not need many minutes to realize that this book is written with both life and humor; this is none of the the usual after-talkers, but one who has deep, personal knowledge of what he is talking about. And I have also realized that a real Helgelander must have written the book, but where in the world Smeviken is in Helgeland I cannot grasp, I finally decide on Leirfjord. And who can this Paal Mørck be? No, I can’t do it. To leaf through and read a little here and there. And I read, and the more I read the stronger my feelings are that this man is beginning to get even closer- and then on one of my excursions to catch fish in a tiny ravine, a hook goes through me, and I turn not arbitrarily on my seat before I